The Mentalist: Red Velvet Box
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Conclusion to my Season 3 series. Jane, Lisbon, and the others react to Christmas in different ways. Fluffy one-shot. Established Jisbon, with hints of Rigspelt and Chummer. Rated T for Adult content and language.No copyright infringement intended.


A/N: Surprise! This is probably not the new story you expected from me, and quite frankly, I'm rethinking my flashback story I'd mentioned earlier. Maybe something will come of that idea; I'm not sure right now. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this Christmas fic. It is unashamedly fluffy and romantic, but that's how I feel about Christmas. It takes place after "In the Red," but you don't have to have read it or any of my past stories to get the gist of it. Just know that it is established Jisbon, and they've been together about a year. It's set in an AU Season 4. Merry Christmas!

**Red Velvet Box**

"I used to love Christmas, once upon a time," said Jane.

They lay in his bed, replete from their recent passion. He was spooned against Lisbon's naked back, his arms wrapped around her, his warm breath in her ear. His voice was slightly hoarse from having yelled her name only moments before.

"Can you believe we had five Christmas trees in the Malibu house? Angela would always go all out because neither of us had ever had a big tree growing up. She gave a whole new meaning to decking the halls, let me tell you. Charlotte even had her own little pink tree in her bedroom, complete with ballerina ornaments. I've never seen anyone love Christmas more than they did."

She felt him smile against her neck, lost in his memories. Lisbon went very still except for her heart, which had picked up speed at his words. She didn't know what to say, if she should say anything at all that might break the intimate mood surrounding them. He never spoke of his dead family, especially by name, and she held her breath, willing him to say more.

"Angela was the one to shake me awake on Christmas morning—not Charlotte—but she'd jump into bed with us soon after. I'd pretend to be annoyed, but secretly I couldn't wait to see their expressions when they saw the presents I'd snuck under the trees after they'd gone to sleep…"

His voice trailed off as he felt her sudden tension. "I'm sorry; I don't know where that came from," he began sheepishly. "If it makes you too uncomfortable…"

"No," she managed, turning in his arms. "No." She hugged his body to hers, feeling her eyes begin to well with unshed tears. She couldn't help feeling that something monumental had just happened, that he'd broken through one of the last barriers between his past and his present with her. She reached up surreptitiously to wipe at her eyes, but of course, he caught her action and pulled back, trying to see her face in the darkness.

His hands came up to dash away the moisture on her cheeks, and he kissed her softly, neither of them knowing what to say as the enormity of what he'd told her began to sink in. He felt his own eyes water. Their kisses became deep and sensual, slowly building to an intimate joining unlike any they had ever known before. He finally felt able to share everything with her, and Jane reveled in this new feeling of freedom, of joy, of release.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was less than a week before Christmas, and all through the Serious Crimes Unit, not a garland one had been hung, the traditional tree in the corner by the elevator conspicuously absent. Van Pelt hadn't even asked to decorate this year, and for some reason, this worried Rigsby more than ever. He watched her from afar, saw how it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her depression behind her usual bright smiles. She looked tired and sad and it was slowly breaking his heart, but he was too gutless to approach her; he no longer had that right.

He couldn't even share his feelings with his partner, for he knew Cho would only make some acerbic comment along the lines of those who failed to study history being doomed to repeat it. Besides, Rigsby reminded himself, he was with Sarah now.

It wasn't as if he missed the gaudiness of the garland, or the way Grace loaded the tree so heavily with tinsel one needed sunglasses to look upon it. No, he knew how much she had always loved this time of year, and for Rigsby it was as if Craig O'laughlin (the traitorous bastard) was still tormenting her from the grave. He couldn't take seeing her like this anymore; there was only one thing left to do.

That night, after everyone else had left the office, Wayne Rigsby picked the lock of the CBI storage closet.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Grace Van Pelt had always loved Christmas, but not this year. Even though she usually went home to Iowa for the holiday, she would still decorate her surroundings, both at work and in her apartment. By now she would have held her annual open house, where she'd invite her neighbors and friends over for homemade cookies, fudge, and spiced apple cider. They'd come to her place in droves, the scent of fresh-cut pine enfolding them while an Amy Grant Christmas CD played softly in the background. But not this year.

No, this year only served as a reminder of all that she had lost. By now, she and Craig would have been married seven months, and they might have even been celebrating Christmas in that old Victorian they'd had their eyes on in Carmichael. It would have been so beautiful there. They would make s'mores in front of the crackling fireplace, hang their stockings from the mantle, make love in the lights of their perfectly chosen Christmas tree. Instead, she'd killed her own dreams when she'd killed her own fiancé.

_Damn you, Craig. Damn you to Hell._

Such thoughts were not conducive to a merry Christmas.

That morning as she rode the elevator up to the second floor of the CBI building, she had decided she would cancel her trip to Iowa. She'd tell her family she had to work; it had happened before. They would understand. She knew her presence would just be a source of concern and discomfort for her parents. They'd be watching her every move, and Grace honestly didn't think she could keep up the facade of sunny smiles when she was in the loving bosom of her family. She knew that the moment she stepped into her mother's arms, she would fall apart; she would no longer be able to keep at bay the tears she hadn't shed for months. She couldn't do it to them, couldn't ruin Christmas for everyone else.

So when Grace stepped off the elevator, the very last thing she expected to see was the artificial company Christmas tree in its traditional place in the elevator landing. She stood stock still as her fellow passengers disembarked around her, brushing past her in annoyance as she took in the six-foot spectacle. The tree looked as if a child had decorated it, the largest ornaments not adorning the lowest branches as God intended, but hanging haphazardly at varying heights in defiance of all known rules of Christmas tree decorating etiquette. What's more, there was more tinsel on one side than the other, one whole strand of lights that wasn't even blinking, and the angel on top leaned precariously to the left.

Grace took all this in with a critical eye, but she couldn't muster the usual urge to move an ornament here, adjust a branch there. Instead, she went numbly on her way to the bullpen. What greeted her there was even worse. Familiar red garland was draped with less than meticulous loops from the tops of the glass walls, and the lovely wreath she'd made last year hung lopsided on the far brick wall.

Her eyes fell on the two men at their usual places, one intently reading his e-mail, the other just pretending to, a small smile hovering around his lips. Rigsby's thoughtfulness was the last straw for Grace Van Pelt. It was as if an emotional avalanche had suddenly engulfed her, and she fled the bullpen with a strangled cry.

Rigsby watched her go, horrified. That was so not the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"Nice," Cho said accusingly from the desk behind his.

Abruptly awakening from his momentary shock, Rigsby rose to his feet.

"Dammit," he exclaimed, heading toward her most likely destination—the ladies' restroom.

When he reached the restroom, he knocked on the door. "Grace," he called. "Are you okay?" There was no answer. He tried again, but when he heard no reply, he pressed his ear to the heavy oak. He could hear her sobs within, so, after looking around him at the empty hall, he pushed open the door to No Man's Land.

Inside, Rigsby bent over to look under the stalls, noting only one pair of women's shoes beneath. She'd chosen the largest of the three, the stall intended for the disabled, likely because it was the farthest away and she was trying for privacy. Not that it made any difference; her heartbroken wailing filled the air, and bathrooms always had the best acoustics. Rigsby found himself standing before yet another closed door.

"Grace," he tried again.

"I-I'm o-o-k-k-ay, Wayne," she hiccupped, embarrassed that he'd followed her in there.

"I'm sorry about the decorations. I'll go take them down if you like."

"No!" she cried, and her sobs increased ten-fold. She was beginning to sound hysterical.

"Aw, Grace, please don't. Come out here; you're starting to scare me." But she didn't answer again; she was inconsolable.

He hated to hear a woman cry, especially _this_ woman, hated the helplessness he felt, hated the feeling that he'd caused all this. He hadn't seen her cry since the day O'laughlin had died, and he realized in dismay that she'd been slowly building up to just such an emotional breakdown. Fearing for her mental health, he went inside the neighboring stall and climbed up on the toilet to have a look at her. She sat, fully clothed (thank God) on the commode, and from what he could see of the face that wasn't buried in a wad of toilet paper, it was nearly as red as her hair. Her shoulders trembled, wracked by her hysteria.

She hadn't told him to get out, so Rigsby took that to mean that she needed his help, but was just too upset to ask for it. So, once again, Rigsby did what he felt needed to be done—he dropped to the floor and dragged his lanky frame beneath the stall wall. Grace was so overwhelmed by her grief that she didn't notice the amusing picture of the tall man crawling on his belly nearby, didn't see him get quickly to his feet and squat down before her.

"Grace," he whispered. He'd just reached out to touch her when she startled into action, her cop instincts kicking in as her fist flew out automatically and connected with his chin. Rigsby fell backwards, banging his head on the stall door, causing the whole enclosure to shudder around them.

"Shit!" he yelped, one hand going to his aching jaw. He sat up, the other hand resting on the back of his head.

"Oh my God! Wayne!"

It was as if Grace had been hit and not Rigsby, for upon seeing the blood trickling from his split lip, comically staring at her in wide-eyed surprise, she snapped out of it, her hysterical crying turning to hysterical laughter. Grace grabbed another handful of tissue, rushing over to him to dab at his mouth with a shaking hand. He reached up to hold it still and their eyes met. Their hands dropped, and wordlessly, he gathered her into his arms. She clung to him tightly, finding comfort at last there on the cold tile of the ladies' room floor.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thirty minutes later, the pair reemerged and calmly took their seats at their desks, Rigsby's jaw suspiciously red and swollen, exactly complimenting Van Pelt's now dry eyes. Cho showed no surprise at their appearance, except perhaps a slight raise of one eyebrow. The three got right back to work.

At about this time, Jane entered the bullpen, his morning tea in hand. He'd noticed, of course, the tree in the foyer, noted how neither it nor the garland in the office area had risen to Van Pelt's Martha Stewart-esque standards. So now, with one look at Rigsby and Van Pelt, he completely grasped what must have happened.

He'd been worried about Grace himself, fully empathizing with what it felt like to be the cause of a loved one's death. She'd been skating on the edge for quite some time and he'd been waiting in the wings for the eventual meltdown. Jane recognized the aftermath of a psychological break when he saw one, and apparently Rigsby's commendable attempt at brightening her spirits had been the catalyst. Then again, the holidays seemed to be the best time of year for that sort of thing.

"Well done," Jane said softly to Rigsby on his way to the couch. Rigsby looked over at Jane, attempting a grateful smile, but grimaced in pain as his lip split open again with the effort.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**Christmas Eve**_

Cho couldn't stop thinking about his newest informant, Summer Edgecomb. He worried about her. Worried that some john might beat her up, worried she'd do something stupid like steal a dead woman's credit card. And so, telling himself that he was only waiting to catch her screwing up (not, of course, to catch her actually screwing) he'd recently taken to checking up on her when he had a spare minute. He'd tracked down her last known address and was surprised to find that it was in a respectable, though older, middle-class neighborhood.

When he couldn't find her at her usual haunts, Cho had taken the chance of going by her small bungalow. When he saw there were lights on inside, he parked his unobtrusive black Toyota across the street and killed the engine. He sat in his car a moment, wondering what the hell had gotten into him that he had now stooped to stalking a two-bit prostitute on Christmas Eve.

_Cho, _he told himself, _you're an idiot. _

He sighed and was about to restart the car when he saw movement behind the blinds of what he assumed was Summer's bedroom. She appeared to be undressing, and he knew he should look away, but it burned him up inside to think she was likely changing into her work clothes—some revealing cocktail dress she'd use to lure clients drunk on Christmas cheer. And so he waited.

Ten minutes later, she appeared in her doorway, clad not in a slutty dress, but in a very respectable pair of jeans, a scoop-necked t-shirt, light jacket, and sensible sneakers. Her hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail, and except for the pink streak in her hair, she looked like any young woman on her way out to do last-minute Christmas shopping. She must have sensed she was being watched, for her intelligent brown eyes focused suddenly on Cho, and he realized belatedly that he'd been so intensely studying her that he'd forgotten to duck down in his seat.

"Shit," he muttered, caught.

Her eyes narrowed, but a knowing smirk transformed her sensual lips. She walked across the street to him, barely looking out for traffic as she purposefully exaggerated the sway of her hips. He almost laughed. He rolled down the passenger side window in resignation, and she bent to the window in amusement.

"Didn't you know stalking was against the law, Agent Cho?" she said mockingly.

"I like to keep tabs on my informants," he managed, the lie coming easily to his lips. She wasn't buying it, he could tell by the way her pert nose wrinkled.

"Sure. What sort of information could you be possibly be needing on Christmas Eve? You wanna know where Santa's been hiding his goodies? Ha." And she laughed at her own joke. His lips quirked, but he kept a straight face.

"Where are you going?" he asked her, as if it were his business.

She considered giving him a smart-ass reply, but settled for the truth. It was just too cute that he had been watching her. "I need to get a few things from the grocery store since the stores will be closed for Christmas."

"Taking the night off?"

Her good humor faded at his reminder of what she was to him. "Even whores should be allowed to take off for Christmas, don't ya think?"

He honestly didn't know what to say to that, but he knew he hated to see the spark disappear from her eyes.

"Sure," he said finally. "Need a lift?"

"That's okay," she said coolly, "the bus stops right down the street. So, since you're not here for information, and you're too straight a cop to request my other services, I'll just be going now…Bye, Kimball."

"Wait," he called as she stepped back from the window. "Get in."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Please," he said, but it cost him to say it.

"Why?"

"Because it's getting dark," he said in uncharacteristic frustration. "And it's not safe for a lady to be out alone at night."

She did laugh at that. "Lady? Why, Kimball Cho, you're a regular knight in a shining foreign compact."

"Are you getting in or not?" he asked irritably.

She grinned and opened the door, sliding into the dark interior. He looked pointedly at the seatbelt, and her lips twitched, but she buckled in.

"I'm only doing this because it's getting chilly outside, and the bus stinks," she assured him,"so don't expect to get a freebie out of it."

"I wouldn't hear of it," he replied, starting the Toyota.

He put on his blinker and pulled into the street, ever mindful of her warm brown eyes upon him. It was just a ride to the store, he told himself. There was no reason for him to feel so unaccountably…happy. But when she reached out and turned on the radio, humming along with _It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, _Cho had to admit to himself that for the first time in years, it actually was.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon had never decorated her apartment for Christmas, never having felt the need. Besides, in California, unless you were in the mountains, it never really felt like Christmas. Chicago winters had been the place to be this time of year, not to mention the fact that she'd been a bit of a Scrooge toward the holiday most of her life. But after Jane's declaration that he used to love Christmas, she'd spent every evening that week, determined that she would make him love it again, with _her_.

"Okay," she said when he knocked on her door on Christmas Eve, "I'll let you in, but you have to close your eyes first." She spoke through the closed door, peering at him through the peephole. He stood there, gorgeous in the leather jacket she'd bought him last Christmas, an overnight bag in one hand.

"Lisbon, unless you're opening the door wearing just a bow, I really don't see the point."

"Just close your eyes or you aren't getting in," she said impatiently. She watched as he rolled his eyes, then closed them with a sigh and a beatific smile.

"Okay, now keep them closed. I'm opening the door."

"No bow?" he asked in disappointment.

"No bow. That's later," she amended, enjoying how his grin widened.

She unlocked the deadbolt, pulled back the chain, and turned the doorknob, reaching out to take him by the hand and guide him inside. She set his bag by the door and led him into her living room where she stopped. Then, taking a nervous breath, she announced he could open his eyes. They lit up at the sight of her elaborately decorated tree, at how she'd transformed the room into something from a modern Christmas card.

Everything was warm and cozy, and the room smelled heavenly, a combination of rich spices and vanilla. She'd even had a small gas fireplace and mantle installed, a fake log burning cheerfully on the grate, fluffy red and white stockings with their names on them hanging above. Swags of red and gold hung on the walls and at the windows, brightly colored pillows and throw blankets livened up her usual Spartan furniture. The coffee table now housed a glass bowl of clove-studded oranges.

"Wow," he said. "This is lovely." He pulled her into his arms and looked down into her shining green eyes. "_You're_ lovely. Did you do this all for me?"

"For us," she corrected, and she brought her hands up to delve into his wind-tossed curls. "I feel like celebrating this year; despite everything that's happened, good and bad."

"I do too," he whispered, before pressing his full lips to hers. "Hmmm…" he said as his tongue tasted the hot interior of her mouth. He pulled back and looked down at her, brow furrowed in concentration.

"You taste delicious…like…nutmeg."

She smiled. "I have eggnog!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most joyous news in the world.

He chuckled. "Well, pour me a glass, woman, and let's enjoy the fire."

They spent the evening watching their favorite holiday movie, _A Christmas Story, _while eating popcorn, drinking cider, and feeding one another the fudge she'd made that had nearly set up right. Later, she insisted they change into their pajamas before _It's a Wonderful Life_ came on the television.

"Why bother? We won't be wearing them for long," he whispered, nuzzling into her neck. She shivered and held him there a moment, her heart picking up speed as it always did when he used that particular tone.

"Indulge me," she said. Of course, in this mood, he could deny her nothing.

He was about to go to her bedroom to slip on the familiar light blue ones he usually wore when she jumped up and presented him with a gift from beneath the tree.

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral," he asked, shaking the box mischievously, fondly remembering last year's Christmas.

"Just open the damn box, Jane," she chided, blushing as she too remembered.

Jane's new pajamas were deep blue silk, wonderfully soft and obviously expensive, and she knew how fabulous he looked in that color. "Teresa, these are really nice. You shouldn't have."

"Oh," she said dreamily, "believe me, they're just as much for me. Go try them on." He kissed her first, then stuck the red bow from his gift to the side of her head with a wink.

"Come with me," he invited, his eyes darkening with sensual promise.

They totally missed the movie.

XXXXXXXXXXXXxxx

Christmas morning came, and Jane awoke before Lisbon. He watched her sleeping in the sunlight streaming through the half-opened blinds, smiling at how she looked so childlike and vulnerable, so unlike the tough CBI agent he'd often seen tackling a fleeing perp. He got up from the bed, pulling on the bottoms of his new gift from where he'd discarded them soon after he'd modeled them for her.

It was time to prepare Lisbon's present, and he felt his pulse leap as he reached into his duffel bag. He pulled out a small, red velvet box, holding it in his hand and staring as his breathing increased and he felt a hint of perspiration on his forehead. _I can do this, _he thought. _It's time._

He sat down on the edge of the bed, setting the box carefully in his lap. Closing his eyes, he reached with his right hand to pull gingerly on the wedding band from his left. He was surprised that it slid off as easily as it had slid on the first time Angela had put it on his finger fifteen years before. He looked at the white tan line it had left behind. Soon, that too would fade, and he would no longer feel like something was missing.

He held the gold band in his palm, feeling for the last time the outer curves he used to worry round and round his finger when he was nervous or thinking of his dead wife. He didn't want to do that anymore; that part of his life was in his past. From now on, he would remember Angela in life, not pine for her in death.

Red John might still be out there, but the madman's power over him had lessened considerably, and as long as he had Lisbon, he could wait for his vengeance. It would come when it would come. For now, he had more important things to think about.

Jane opened the little jeweler's box, an antique he'd picked up from a downtown pawn shop. It was lovely and old, but it wasn't the vessel that was significant, it was what he would put inside. Opening it by its old-fashioned hinge, he examined the empty satin nest, his old wedding band's new resting place. This was his gift to Lisbon—his freedom. She would look at it and understand his intentions immediately, and it was better than any promise ring he could ever buy.

Later, he'd give her the pricey perfume and bubble bath set he'd bought her, along with the airline tickets she could use to visit her brothers. (He was secretly hoping she'd invite him along.)

Maybe by next Christmas, if they were both ready, their ring fingers would hold different rings, shiny and new-like their present. Like their future. A smile as bright as the morning sunshine lit Jane's face, and he jumped on the bed, shaking her shoulder excitedly. She moaned in protest, turning over on her stomach.

"Teresa!" he whispered loudly. "Wake up! It's Christmas!"

**THE END**

**A/N: ** I know, I know, pretty mushy, right? But that's what Christmas fics are for, in my opinion. If you are a new reader of mine, and/or find yourself wanting to revisit some ghosts of Christmas past, I've written two other Christmas themed stories. One is "Scarlet Ribbons," which I wrote nearly a year ago, long before Bruno Heller ripped off my title and used it for an episode in season 4, lol (not to be confused with my tag of the same name). And then there is "Red Garland," a multi-chapter continuation of last year's Christmas episode, "Jolly Red Elf." Please, just click on my name and scroll. I'd love to hear what you think of them, if you haven't told me already ;).

I don't know exactly what's next for me, but I feel lost when I'm not writing, so I'm sure it won't be long before I come up with something. I hope you find your way back here to share your thoughts. Thanks for reading!


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